


my home has a heartbeat

by mukkmuro



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, I just wanted to write, M/M, Nijimura taking care of Akashi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-24 15:36:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3774040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mukkmuro/pseuds/mukkmuro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And absolutely nothing makes this place feel more like home than this does."</p>
            </blockquote>





	my home has a heartbeat

The shift of the mattress wakes him up. He's faced with nothing but darkness when he flicks an eyelid open and he's grown up from his fears of monsters under his bed a long time ago, so the only explanation must be Seijūrō, probably fighting jet lag as per custom after one of his business trips. Shūzō swiftly turns around and blinks up at the fidgeting back. 

"Can't sleep?" he drawls out, almost whispers. 

"Yes. I'm sorry I woke you up." it's the obvious reply.

He's sounds like he means it, though, so Shūzō grunts. Apology accepted. He stopped wondering how Seijūrō can tell. People tend to talk about how they've just sort of clicked like that from the start.

Then the fidgeting, eventually, stops and he turns around, revealing a pair of mismatched red/gold eyes. Eyes he's got himself very accustomed to by now. At first, they were a surprise, even a shock and now... That didn't change very much, truth be told.

He still feels unnerving whenever he stares into his honey-colored eye, but it's a fond feeling now, completely different from the frustrating one he used to get. It reminds him that people change, that Seijūrō changed. Grew, while he did the same. Just on a different side of the world.

"You should go back to sleep, Shūzō." Seijūrō commands him. It's not really an order. His voice's too thin, his hair mushed up by how much he moved around for the past hour, unable to get a bit of shut-eye. His eyes tired, bloodshot and angrily red looking. A bit of moonlight casts shadows under them, so it's easy to picture the deep dark circles. He's too young to look like this.

Instead of answering or following the command, Shūzō grasps blindly in the darkness until he feels his fingers wrap around one of Seijūrō's elbows and he tugs him closer. Seijūrō moves willingly the rest of the way, nuzzling just under his chin and he drapes the arm that had a grip on him over his hip, feeling the jaunty bone, the soft, sensitive skin he likes to bite little marks into.

"Give me five minutes and I'll go make you hot chocolate." he mushes, buries his nose in the heap of red hair and kisses the top of his head.

"You don't have-" Seijūrō tries to say, but he stops him with a warning growl. It's not that much of a warning, since it comes out muffled, but it still manages to keep him from finishing that thought.

They've talked about this. Seijūrō not wanting to open up to him and the fact that he can't let people help him when he needs (especially when he needs it). He's working on those things and Shūzō plans to help him, however he can.

He likes to pamper him up, despite claiming otherwise. He loves him and he's learned from his father that making your loved ones happy is all that matters when he was five and he didn't want to share his toys with his baby brother.

They sit like this, feet tangled up together and bodies pressed together, for a few more minutes, breathing each other in and out, chests rising to the same shared heartbeat. It's sappy to think it, but fuck it. He's tired of fighting it.

He'd kill for him, that's a fact. He'd sacrifice everything for him and ask for nothing in return, just this, right here, it's enough for him and he likes to tell him that sometimes when they are both sleepless and decide to go watch the stars from their building's rooftop. He likes to whisper in his ear these words, pour them in front of him, no matter how sappy and dumb they sound, he gives them all to him. But in the end, he still loves showing him more than telling them.

Shūzō taps his back lightly until Seijūrō gets the message and nods, leaves his arms to cuddle up on his side of the bed. He whispers a small 'thank you' but his eyes are bright, glistening with all these feelings and it's enough. It's all Shūzō wants to see for the rest of his life.

He smiles and ruffles his hair, because it's safer than doing anything else he feels like doing, like press him against their bed and ravish him, break and put him back together. Piece by piece, until they both get lost in it.

But that's for later, after Seijūrō sleeps his well-deserved eight hours.

Shūzō gets out of bed. The floor's freezing cold, but that doesn't stop him. He feels chills going down his spine and goosebumps rise on his naked arms and his nape. Luckily, he doesn't bump his head into a wall and breaks his nose while he makes his way to the kitchen.

Switching the lights on feels like a bad idea, but he does it anyways. Better than starting a fire. The sudden light burns his eyes for only a few seconds. He steps past the threshold then and opens a few cabinets and drawers, gets all he needs (pot, milk, sugar, powder and the like) and starts to work his magic as silently as possible, in case Seijūrō fell asleep.

He waits the milk to boil at the small island in the middle of kitchen slash living room. The apartment isn't that big, only three bedrooms (a guest-room, a makeshift office for Seijūrō and their bedroom) and the utility rooms, but it feels like home to him. Even more so than his one-story house felt, back in America.

They've brought this place together and it's theirs. They made it so. A few flower pots, a shogi table in the living room, a set of DVDs by the TV, a gas lamp (gift from Midorima) by the big and comfortable couch Shūzō has slaved two weeks of his life away to afford, the few traditional (read: more expensive than all of his belongings combined) tea pots Seijūrō and his mother have brought together, that now only serve as reminders of good times. Seijūrō cleans them up regularly, almost religiously so and Shūzō makes sure to not break them.

It's home and it's perfect.

*

He goes back in their bedroom, steaming mug in hand.

Seijūrō probably heard him coming, because he's already seated upwards on the bed, back against the headboard.

When he extends his hand to take his mug, Shūzō gives it to him and carefully wiggles himself back under the covers. Sleep doesn't come for a while. Long enough for Seijūrō to blew on his hot drink and take a few mindful sips of it, drink half of it and gulp down the rest. He put the mug on the nightstand and lays under the blankets with him.

He feels Seijūrō shuffle behind him, his arms wrap around his waist, his chest press against his back and his warm, even breath lulls him to sleep.

And absolutely nothing makes this place feel more like home than this does.


End file.
